In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all; br From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall: br The beech scatters her ruddy fire; br The lime hath stripped to the cold, br And standeth naked above her yellow attire: br The larch thinneth her spire br To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold. br br Out of the golden-green and white Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright br In the forest of flame, and wave aloft br To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft. br br But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail, br As the harrying North-wind beareth br A cloud of skirmishing hail br The grieved woodland to smite: br In a hurricane through the trees he teareth, br Raking the boughs and the leaves rending, br And whistleth to the descending br Blows of his icy flail. br Gold and snow he mixeth in spite, br And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight br He passeth, and all again for ahile is bright.